Love PoemWritten by 白云诗 Translated by Mic
by MicRaisukun
Summary: They left each other and went back again. They finally realized that HE was his lover.
1. Chapter 1

Hi there, this is Mic.

Love Poem is originally written by 白云诗(search for the name on lofter and you'll find the blogger) and I'm authorized to translate it into English.

English is my scd language, so if you are willing to help me improve the quality of translation, plz contact me through qq 1760986812 or review, thx.

Chapter 1 Charming Photos

They were barely friends then. They only dedicated to the communication of their poems and pcitures.

Well, they were barely friends then.

Before Fushimi knew Yata, he didn't write deliberately. It's too troublesome to write down anything, or to draw. However, his creativity never stopped him from composing.

Ultimately, he chose to observe the world with a camera.

He wasn't an expert in expressing what he was really thinking about, which led to his words contrary to his thoughts.

Poets always state that people without voice will be compensated with sort of peculiar senses.

And Fushimi Saruhiko exactly had.

His shots were often weird but comely, containing panicking elegance and coldness.

He took plentiful beauteous photos, but these pictures turned out to be so pale after he had read through those poems.

Similarly, his life without Yata was meaningless like deserted films.

Let's rewind the tape to the point where his life started—ironically, he called that point 'where his life started'.

The dean of Art department took great pains to have a heart-to-heart talk with him when he first entered the university.

'Fushimi, you are indeed talented in art, why don't you consider about changing a major?'

Oh well, he liked computer science so.

The dean might be quite used to his distant way of communicating. He smiled and only gave a piece of suggestion, 'It doesn't matter. Just go to the Art Corner in the school and look around. Feel it, and I bet you'll like it.'

Fushimi didn't take all the fucking things the dean said seriously. But he wanted to compose and to shot. His impulses raised all the day, pushing him to click everywhere, recording another facet of the world.

Blue.

Solitary.

He pictured photo after another everywhere inside school as well as places around, until he couldn't shot the next any more. He was in his teens, disagreeable and touchy-feely. The more the dean recommended the Art Corner, the less he desired to have a look.

Nevertheless, he didn't want to spend 4 hours on the tram only to capture the unique scenery everyday.

'I went there only to APPROACH the Corner, and I will never step in the corner.' He promised him self.

Fushimi, seemed to be stealthy and tricky, thought to himself while circling the garden which was specially open for the art students.

Finally he realized that he was not so familiar with the school as he believed.

Fushimi Saruhiko, a 19-year-old freshman, lost his way on a artistic arid path.

But the point was that, he came across a broken wall when he was trying to figure out his way.

And there was a poem on the wall.

He could hardly remember what it was about. Time passes by, and he could only recall his pulsation when he took a glance at the poem in the sunset, solemn and stirring.

It was written to eulogize over the freedom of the setting sun, burning the world like fiery flame. The words were simple, but it contained sort of gorgeousness, integrating with his simpleness.

That was what he was constantly looking for, the dizzy enthusiasm burning from the strokes and words and sentences.

The writer ended the poem in a specific way.

'…There must be a lonely lover,

Struggling in a certain corner,

Waiting for me,

A comer.'

He signed an English name in the bottom right.

'MISAKI'.

Fushimi couldn't control himself to shoot continuously when he was looking at the words on the wall, exactly as he couldn't control himself to make love in the days after.

During the gap, he leant to touch the strokes. They rustled and the white powder followed, like the torso of a lover, trembling under his touch.

He filled his SD card with the photos of the poems that day.

In the days after, he made a pilgrimage every day in front of the wall. He didn't expect to meet the poet though. He was only following his instinct to go there.

Every day, he discovered a brand new poem. Sometimes it was extolling the spring rain, other time it was praising the moonlit night. The matters were too vulgar to be depicted as poetry, but when it came to the white chalk, it was brimmed with sentiment.

He meticulously shot illustrations for every poem, and juxtaposed them with the photos of the poem. He even created an account of the blog for them, though he never even attempted.

MISAKI. It was the name of the blog.

For suitable illustrations, he often stayed up for all night or wandered around all day to look for the bright moonlight or the withering flower in the rain. He couldn't really tell why, but he believed it to be natural. Just like people would throw amorous glances to those charming features.

What an interesting girl.

Fushimi had the desire to see the girl who wrote the poems, but he feared as well.

What if she was ugly? Would his first love be with such a girl who….

The stuff just flashed upon him in class, and he really pitied himself for a moment.

Wait, what the fuck is that!

His inner entanglement was suddenly interrupted by the chalk thrown by the wrathful professor. In the laughter of the class, he turned his face to the window and said to himself,

'…A comer.'

How fabulous.

Yata saw from his friend's phone that his scrawls on the walls were shot as works of art.

He felt ashamed, but also joyful and proud.

It was complex, however, that he enjoyed being appreciated while complaining the impoliteness of the unknown blogger, who used His name to exhibit His poems.

Especially he or she was using the name that he hated the most, MISAKI.

He wasn't even realizing that he was the one who wrote the name.

Yata tried hard to pretend nothing had happened but failed. The blogger shot the scrawls every day together with illustrations, immaculately, ceaselessly, like he was taking ecstasy or something. He was indeed an expert in photographing, only cutting out Yata's favorite lines, while blurring his unsatisfying ones.

The bosom feeling irritated Yata. He tried to come across the photographer near the wall, but it never happened.

Finally, he made up his mind to spend a whole day to meet with the sensuous blogger, who always endowed his pale lines the most colorful and amorous atmosphere.

He wiped everything on the wall and expected him until sunset.

'The setting in the world,

Was light reflected of dawn,

The break of lust and desire.

There must be a lonely lover,

Struggling in a certain corner,

Waiting for me,

A comer.'

The photographer was slow in coming in the background of the setting sun.

Yata felt too ashamed to admit that he fell asleep when waiting. When he regained his consciousness, the peeper was standing in front of him with a peculiar facial expression.

The sunset was blazing in his eyes regardless of his glasses.

Yata suddenly recognized the similarity between the photographer and him at that moment, though they appeared to be such different people.

'Is that you who take those photos?' Yata stood up and asked bashfully. The red flush and the fever on his cheeks might get themselves from the burning sunset.

Fushimi nodded and smiled, 'So why didn't you write them today?'

'Waiting for you.' Yata answered him without hesistation.

They smiled at each other, a little bit ashamedly but tacitly, like gamesters who cheated but exposed each other at the same time.

A poet said that people may fall in love due to their similarity.

So, do you believe it or not?

Fushimi squated in a hunting pose, facing the tiny little poet, and raised his camera piously.

'Well, should we start now?'

'My MISAKI.'

How imitate. How appropriate.

Yata didn't have time to feel annoyed or protest against his words, so he continued on with his flush and turned his head towards the sun.

'Don't call me like that.'

'Emm.'

Fushimi spoke in inadvertence because he didn't even know he was talking. His heart was full of the desire to fill his camera, like the ecstasy when being refreshed after a long drought.

The poet, in his lens, booted the small stone and started his composition on the wall skillfully.

And he wrote the poem which Fushimi first met at the wall.

'The setting in the world,

Was light reflected of dawn,

The break of lust and desire.

There must be a lonely lover,

Struggling in a certain corner,

Waiting for me,

A comer.

Finally I would go for her,

Though the sunset would burn,

In flames,

My life ended with no term.'

Yata turned his back on Fushimi, doodling on the wall with his white chalk with deliberation and calmness.

The courtesan expressed her body in a proud manner to her client, with a sense of tameness as well.

His mind and character settled his pride and mildness, in which naivety mixed with sensuousness.

Then he looked back and shone brilliantly towards Fushimi with the bloody sunset around him.

Fushimi believed his real life started from this moment, though he told himself again and again that he was only a man, or to be more precisely, a scrawling bard.

But he couldn't even resist or deny the franticness and amor in mood.


	2. Chapter 2

Fushimi thought that Yata must have slept with various girls before writing down such zealous poems.

Ironically, the truth went to the opposite side. His dear was a virgin.

So when virgin Data got a peep from Fushimi's back, he was petrified by a whole album of naked women.

'Uhh, your nosebleed is so sickening, Misaki.'

'Are you asking me? What the hack are you reading..….!'

'Tsk.'

Did he have to behave like this when seeing the atlas of human body?

Fushimi wiped away the blood, took of his shirt, threw blood-phobia Yata to the bed, all in an impersonal manner.

'What do you want to do to me?'

'Wash my shirt.'

Fushimi answered, again indifferently. Then he turned to the laundry and laughed his head off.

Those girls who write novels for their first love tend to make everything vivacious in their own stories, no matter it's a man-man or woman-man one. But in the real world, they even blushed for a glance of their idol.

Nevertheless, his poet Yata didn't have to own a love story with women, and indeed he figured out those fabulous lines.

Just like all the love in the world has been preloaded in his mind.

Fushimi, who used to stay away from the world, wanted to lick the vigorous world like a church mouse.

They met each other at sunset, and naturally became friends, close friends.

'Such delightful experience to compose with him.' They said to themselves, silly smiles on their faces.

You know, two words of 'kindred spirits', without love or any other emotions, are content enough for us to abandon anything, as it's so hard to meet a soulmate in your mayfly life.

It didn't take Fushimi much effort to persuade his roommate to leave. And his request to Yata followed, 'Would like to be my roommate? It's so boring to live alone in a vacant room.

He lied to Yata shamelessly, while Yata trusted him wholeheartedly. Consequently he moved from crowded dorm of eight into Fushimi's cosy apartment.

This is the most costly flat in campus, and the cost accords with its view. A large roof is large enough for them to enjoy the wind and kiss.

'Why did you rent such a large apartment alone?' Yata asked while cooling with Fushimi.

'Cuz I'm waiting for you.' They laughed ineffably in the warm spring night after Fushimi answered in a direct and shameless manner.

'Well, my dad died when I was young, and my mum doesn't care about me at all. The more she's careless, the more I'm willing to spend her money.' And you don't know how much I want to live in a vacant house like this, so that you will come to be with me from nowhere.

Fushimi thought to himself, hiding his eyes behind the glasses, reflecting the calm night and the warm orange light.

'Don't be upset! I'll be with you then!' Yata suddenly grabbed his hand and yelled.

And I felt that for this I had been waiting long, my poet.

Fushimi turned to Yata, smiling in relief. His face seemed to be comely, with sophisticated calm and sharpness, with some melancholia belong to his age, dizzying Yata with a whiff of wind.

The poet wrote the passionate words on the roof.

'A lifelong lie,

I wanna lie to my lover,

lying that love lasts lifelong,

because even I die,

the love never changes its life.'

Fushimi believed that it was the best of their times.

The presence of Yata brought a sense of ineffable vigor and vitality to his life.

Contrasting to his wild style, the mini poet was someone emphasizing on life quality. He cleaned the room frequently, converted used films into bookmarks and pen containers, morning called his cameraist violently with his fist, and cooked a variety of dishes full of homely circumstance. The only defect was that he liked vegetables and forced Fushimi to eat as well. It disappointed the carnivore to a large extent.

'How could you possibly cook pineapple with lettuce? At least it should be with meat, shouldn't it?'Fushimi tunked the plate and stared into his chef's eyes, with affectionateness, grudges, and 'I can really afford it'.

But the chef held his stand and took a large bite to model. 'It's good for health, you know.'

Fushimi had to threaten Yata to relieve. 'Believe it or not, I will eat you if you cook again like a vegetarian.'

Yata acquiesced for a moment, and then he rose from his bowl and retorted with meaningless expression.

'As your wish.'

Yata's expression, combining purity and sensuality, seduced Fushimi in a certain way. He swallowed and suddenly felt all of the dishes were delicacies.

Yata was panic-stricken to see him rose suddenly, disappeared for a moment and brought his camera back a moment after.

'Now, repeat your expression again.'

Yata can't help rolling his eyes towards him. 'Are you OK?'

'I wanna taste the wind, the rain, and you.

'Cause the atmosphere was full of the taste of my love.'

The expert cook wrote such sensual lines in the kitchen, with rice and mushroom and pineapple, together into a dark cuisine, mixing with the flavor of courtship.

'You're in love.' The dean of art department insisted Fushimi's acceding, especially when he heard that Yata and Fushimi were composing together, he believed it was a waste of talent to let him go. Every week, he talked conscientiously with Fushimi.

'It has nothing to do with my going to art department.' Fushimi got the wrong point.

'But you're in love.' The dean repeatedly unshakably. 'And you are really talented, not only in photographing. If you come to art department, I can introduce you a lot of teachers in the society.'

'Thanks a lot. I love computer science whole-heartedly.' Fushimi refused him gently. He enjoyed the dean's words, and walked back to the dorm with a stupid smile on his face.

It was their first peak of cooperation. They continued to use the blog 'Misaki' as Fushimi used before. They not only issued photos of poem, but also travel notes. They were willing to spend 4 hours on the tram and explore the seasons of the city, writing and photographing. They reaped a lot of fans. After all, Fushimi was not the only one who loved Yata's poem, and Yata was not the only one who loved Fushimi's photos. Their artistic photos and words enchanted a lot of people.

'Let's publish a book if we posted 100 blogs, shall we?' Yata asked him

Freezing winter enveloped the suburb wilderness. Poems were written by a stick, turning into snow mud by chasing and pushing.

'Sure.'

Fushimi handed over a bottle of juice to Yata, with black coffee in his own hand. He drew a shape of flame on the foggy window of the cafe with his fine fingers.

'Brilliant!' Yata exclaimed.

'What about drawing one on yours?' Fushimi mocked him.

It was undeniable that his talents were far more than photographing. He even started drawing and writing, because of his MISAKI.

Different from his sensual photos, his paintings were elegant and beautiful and his words were tasteful enough, surprisingly. On the contrary of his frenzy mind, his voice was soft and chilly, like it was never accustomed to any satirical remarks and was only for sweet talks.

Yata couldn't even protest such whispers. He threw the manuscripts at Fushimi and yelled, 'Work on it!'

It's quite embarrassing that Fushimi had to write on Yata's behalf for his travel notes section.

Oddly, poet Yata was not an expert at narrating. Every time they wrote an account for travels, Fushimi felt that he was conquered again by his narration style. The basic type was 'First…Then…And…So…Finally…'

It is virtually emotionless. Fushimi was quite dumbfounding.

Or maybe, he was weary of writing such long-winded story. The poems, written when he wanted, were so glamorous that the paleness of narration could be fully forgiven, just like what he was.

He was short, bad-tempered, stupid, and was always forcing him to eat vegetables. Nevertheless, Fushimi could forgive all the above shortcomings when he saw the dynamic eyes and hearing Yata calling him.

'Saruhiko!'

It was the best verse of all.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 Love Hunter

Yata loves the large balcony of the apartment. He loves to lean against the sliding door, enjoying the breeze, facing the vast evening sky and eating orange-flavored pudding.

'Saruhiko, could we enjoy the breeze together here if we became preeminent in the future?'

Fushimi was stiff for a moment. Such a sensational question wasn't of Yata's style, and wasn't of his scale of answering.

They would graduate anyway. Would they be together then?

Nevertheless, Yata knew nothing of his depression.

'When I become rich enough, I would buy you a huge house with a balcony, larger than this one. We won't have to rely on your mother any more!' His poet said energetically.

'Ah, I am quite nit-pick, you know.'

Is there any one more lovely than his poet?

Their fame grew bigger and bigger with the spread of photos and poems, until CEO of Homra visited them personally. He didn't suppose it was a cooperation, so he sat there, lighting up and showing a deliberate expression.

They sat face to face at a table. Fushimi had a cool head, while Yata was excited and anxious. It was quite normal for Yata, because the red-hair man in front of him was an avant-garde artist with global prizes and moreover, he was Yata's idol.

Mikoto Suoh.

Fushimi sized the man up. He was in his middle age, without an air and even was a little slovenly. He didn't stop smoking since they met. He knew Mikoto Suoh, a former fauvist artist, the winner of countless international prizes. Domestic art prizes were swept by him for several times as well. His motto was 'To burn', and red flames were often the them of his themes.

Yata especially favored his painting 'Sirius', and even collected the replicate of this. It was indeed a piece of work with tension.

As now he was in his middle age, he didn't appear as a competitor. Most of the times, he appeared as a judge. He set up the publishing house, Homra, with exclusive investment.

Same as its name, works of Homra were both sensual and avant-garde, but they didn't lose literary feel for this. On the contrary, they were widely accepted. The Chu-ni-byo CEO of Homra often popularize some minor trend works, and won the reputation of 'value art over money' because of this.

And now he was in front of them, smoking and swaying his bangs unconciously.

'Would you like to continue pretending to be someone?'

'Someone?' Yata was a bit confused

'Hah, you two could just pretend to be one author to write a novel.'

'Bravo!'

'But you should change a subject matter.' Suoh smiled and lit another cigarette, looking at the poet and drawer in front of him.

Suoh suggested they shouldn't rigidly adhere to poems and photos. He proposed that they should write novels, imaginary novels.

Narration and reasoning attributed to Fushimi, fighting and lyrics were Yata's part.

'You will create a stir in literary world.' Suoh said, like he knew them quite well.

'Tsk.' Fushimi uttered a brief sound defiedly. He believed Suoh hadn't seen the narration skill of Yata. Let him be in charge of fighting scenes? Isn't that a joke?

Fushimi imagined Yata's description of 'They first hit with their fists, and then one hit another, and then they engaged in a stage-off, and then they hit each other again, the hero won at last'. He didn't dare to laugh, so he turned his face to the other side.

Suoh seemed see through his mind, pushing the cigar butt in the ashtray carelessly.

'Believe me, you can figure out excellent have potential.'

You are an artist but not a writer, why should I believe in you?

Nevertheless, both Yata and Fushimi signed a two-year contract with Suoh.

When they left, Yata was overjoyed, bowing to Suoh in humble reverence.

'Please take care of everything, Mr. Suoh!'

'Hah, just call me Mikoto.'He just smiled and raised his hand.

His receding figure was still slack, but his conceit and shrewdness steeled in art and literary world impressed them deeply.

And then it was the moment to decide they pseudonym.

Such gave a strong rebuff to the name 'MISAKI'.

'There're are too many namesakes, and it lacks characteristics.'

So both of them spent a day at the balcony, eating pudding and discussing about pseudonym.

'What about merging out names together?' Yata proposed in the first place, and Fushimi expressed that he quite appreciated that.

'Saruhiko Yata.'

'…Tsk.'

Fushimi was not happy with this, because it should be Misaki Fushimi! Why should he follow the surname of Yata? But he was not unreasonable. He should persuade Yata through reasoning.

'It wasn't that bad, just one big question—the initial of "Yata" is "Y", the initial of "Saruhiko" is "S". If they arrange the name, the pseudonym was definitely going to be among the last.'

Quite reasonable. Yata believed so. But how was that related to their work?

'Haven't you read the success of name? The names of successful persons usually have an initial which is among the first in the alphabet. The rate of successful persons begin with ABC is far larger than that of XYZ.'

Yata associated with his idol Mikoto Suoh, beginning with M. Indeed! And he further associated with Bill Gates. Everything made much sense.

'So this is a huge disadvantage of the name, and we could hardly be popular with it. Since we have decided to do, we should do it perfectly, shouldn't we?' Fushimi continued to talk nonsense decently.

'Then what shall our name be?'

'Misaki Fushimi!' Fushimi was quite a planner. 'You see, Fushimi—begins with F, Misaki—begins with M, it has a far higher rank than Saruhiko Yata. Moreover, the name sounds to be a girl. Let's pretend to be a female writer.'

A female writer that could hold deductive reasoning, fighting, and at the same time was good at poems and drawing! What an idol!

Yata thought to himself, and began to long for 'her'.

He behaved like a naive boy entered the pyramid selling den, accepting the setting immediately.

Suoh was still unsatisfied with their arrangement plan.

'Hah, the name was still vulgar.'

Fushimi refused to change the name again on behalf of Yata, who was not present.

'It has to be this. Misaki and I believed it to be the best.'

Suoh didn't say a word. The second mate gazed at him with a smile behind the smoke, like he knew everything.

Fushimi saw him before on the magazine as well. Izumi Kusanagi, a underworld theme writer in vogue. Last year his documentary writing 'Carmen in Tavern' led a trend of underworld subjects.

He didn't care at all how common and explicit the name was, but he still reconfirmed for his boss, 'You are not going to change it anyway?'

No we are not.

Finally, the name of a new female writer, Misaki Fushimi, was decided in the office of Homra, and SHE would cause a mighty uproar in the literary circle.

In order to decide what to write, they considered for a long time as well, as long as making love for the whole night.

The night filled their balcony with empty shells and bottles of pudding and son drinks.

Fushimi believed he didn't have anything to imagine. He was fully occupied by his MISAKI and he couldn't think of other things. He thought it should be Yata's job to create, and he should be the one to realize it.

Yata had countless illusions for this youthful world. It was such a delight to realize anything for him.

Finally they decided to write the process of maturity for a couple of teens. In that world, they fought and face various enemies together, one with short stick and skateboard, another with daggers and sabre. They trusted each other and contradicted each other. On their way of adventure, they knew and lost a lot of friends. In this way they began their passionate stories. In confusion and struggle, they finally discovered and got back to each other.

Bravo.

Suoh was also satisfied with it after reading the plan.

'Call it "Love Hunter"'.

The hunter of love. Fushimi quite appreciated the name, and he believed Suoh left a bright new impression in his mind.

Yata looked at the name and smiled with a blush. He suddenly flashed back to the expression when Saruhiko first saw him and held his camera.

Suoh was a man of vision. Like what he said, they acquired great success. Their work was the first among serialization in their first month of publishing.

In the next five months, their popularity grew with a crushing force, breaking the Hot topic of all BBS. The promotion of Suoh was bustling with activity. He followed the popularity with the first volume of the novel. The title page was painted by himself, together with special product of large size illustration.

What a joke! Mikoto Suoh, laid his pen for five years and suddenly staged a comeback with a title page of a light novel, together with special product of illustration?

Not only were the fans of Misaki Fushimi crazy, the fans of Suoh were frenzied as well.

The first volume broke ten thousand presells.

All the literary magazines and websites are talking about the female writer who appeared suddenly. Considering that Such was single, a lot of magazines were gossiping about the relationship between him and the newcomer.

The point is that Homra is really lacking in female writers. The female writer with brilliant style of writing interests the readers, not to say that she doesn't appear in the public at all.

Suoh even put her in special protection, representing her interview every time.

'The power of love? Artist Mikoto Suoh put the newcomer forward'

Domestic tabloids couldn't wait to publish similar passages like this. Famous bloggers expressed their views, rivaling to be the top spot. The wars between fans went along without an end.

These were not important at all, but they were really at the height of popularity in only half a year.

'That's brilliant, Mr. Suoh!' Yata was so excited in the office that he could fly.

'Hah, just call me Mikoto.'

'Yeah! Yeah! Mikoto-san!'

Yata couldn't help blushing. He loved poems, but he never imagined to acquire so much success like he did today.

He was in such a stiff when Such said he would draw the title page for him. He never imagined that the one he adored would tailor the front cover for his own novel,

Fushimi gazed at his excited poet speechlessly. 'Tsk'

Izumo smelled that he was unhappy.

'What about it? Shouldn't you hail a victory for your fame?'

'Yes, I am happy with that.'

Fushimi didn't pay attention to him any more. He moved his view towards the clear sky outside the window.


End file.
